by Pete Clark
“So Adams, you knock me out from behind like a coward. You interrogate me. Then, after I beat you and your boys here into a crying bag of bitches, you have the gall to tell me that I may be right for the job that you want. Well, Mr. Adams,” Prescott approached the patriot leader with a cool stride. As he got up next to him, he bent down and leaned in close so that he could count the stubble on his cheek. “I have been after you for some time now. And you are going to answer a question or two for me.”
“No,” said Adams.
Not amused, Prescott punched Adams in the jaw. His head rocked back and a tooth seemed to spiral through the air in slow motion as it ricocheted off the wall and clattered to the floor. The other men started to get up, but Prescott’s sword was out in a blink and he cut off the belt buckle of the closest man. As his pants slid to the floor, the other men sat down.
“I don’t think you understand your situation,” said Prescott.
“No,” spat Adams. “You don’t understand yours. You want something. I know what it is; I know everything. Why you want it, that I don’t know, but it is clear you have become obsessed with this for some reason.”
“He tried to have me killed. I don’t forgive that. I also don’t forgive being kidnapped. It’s time for you to start to grasp the fact that I don’t care how big a name you are; I don’t have a problem seeing just how deep my sword can go into your eye. I have a nice muddy pit all picked out already. It can easily fit six.”
It was then that Revere decided it was a good time to shit himself.
“I must disagree, Mr. Prescott. You have a dark cloud about your name, sir. Most people don’t know who you are or what you do. But we know. Secrecy is important to you, isn’t it? What if we reveal your secret?”
“Adams,” Prescott chuckled. “You cannot be this stupid. I have your life in my hands and all you are doing is giving me reasons why I should kill you.”
“It seems that way, sure, but only if you don’t know the bigger picture. Which, as usual, you don’t.”
“Enlighten me,” said Prescott.
“Happily. You see six men here with you. But stop and think. We are in a basement. But where is that basement? Who is outside of it? Who might happen to be in the rooms above it? Perhaps there are dozens of men, maybe more. Certainly they aren’t enemies of mine, and certainly they are not friends of yours. You are trapped, whether you are tied to a chair or not. You know my name. Everyone knows my name. And that is because I have power and friends and I can make you disappear too, but I won’t have to carry your body out to the mud myself. I can have any of a thousand people do it for me.”
“Even if what you say is true, why didn’t they come down here when I was about to kill you? I promise you this. It doesn’t matter how many men come down here or what happens to me. You won’t be giving any orders because you’re first to die.”
Adams could tell that he meant it. Perhaps he had underestimated the extent of the ferocity within this man. But it was not time to give up now. “They did not come down because they have been instructed only to do so under very specific circumstances. And if you kill me, then I guess you’ll never find out about your friend de Lavoir.”
At the sound of the name, Prescott’s rage grew visible. He drew a short knife from his boot. Adams had enough time to realize that Prescott had that knife on him even when he was tied to the chair before he was dragged to his feet and the blade was jammed into his mouth; one of his teeth was being pried out with great vigor. Prescott was talking, but Adams was having trouble understanding him due to the immense pain.
“Tell me what you know. I am done with this ridiculous chatter.” Prescott threw the quivering Adams to the ground. Adams reached for his mouth. The blood was pouring out in misty spurts. “What do you know about de Lavoir?” He glanced at the other men and kept them in their chairs with a look of stifled rage.
“You mean business,” gargled Adams. “You’re my type of guy. I’ll tell you about de Lavoir, but I want you to listen to my proposal first. And try to do it without taking any more of my teeth.”
“You have five minutes. If I’m not completely enraptured by this tale at the end of that time,” and Prescott made a point then to look at Revere, “I’m going to kill everyone in this room. And if there is anyone above us or outside, then I’m going to kill all of them, too.”
“No need to be so dramatic. This should interest you. As you know, I am secretly a very high-ranking member of the Sons of Liberty. We are committed to raising a revolution against the oppressive British government so that we may have our own properly and fairly governed country.”
“I already know all of this.”
“Yes, but there is more. We have a plan in place that we believe will spur the spirit of this soon to be nation and help lead us toward our much needed war.”
“Then you and your friends are idiots. First, if there is a war or any heightened conflict, the rippers will continue to increase. A war will send their numbers out of control. You need to find a way to stop them first. Second, you want to start a war with the most powerful army in the world? I should kill you now, simply to save the colonies.”
“Do you not hate the nature of our British leaders?” Adams asked.
“I do. But I am not a fool who rushes to his own death. Besides, I feel as if I have had this exact conversation with you already. Why don’t you stop talking in generalities and get to the point?”
“Fair enough. There is a large shipment of taxed tea sitting in Boston Harbor. Three ships holding the tea are just waiting. We have refused to accept the tea as we will not be taxed without having a say in government. However, the British governor of Boston refuses to send the tea back to England. This is a perfect opportunity to show our distaste. In a few days’ time, we have plans for that tea,” said Adams.
“Drink it?” Prescott asked sarcastically.
“No. With the resentment of the tea tax, we will make a strong symbolic statement. We will throw the tea into the harbor. It seems like such a simple move. But it will resonate. To go against the British in such a way, while their warships and their garrisons begin to populate our lands, the people will respond to this. In fact, the British will respond to this and the conflict will come to a head. This will lead us to freedom.”
“It will probably lead you to prison or death. But the larger questions remain. Why do you need me to do something as simple as throw some tea into the harbor? And what does this have to do with de Lavoir?”
“It isn’t as simple as you might think. We need you to clear out whatever rippers are in the area. Our tea party needs to enter silently. We don’t want the Redcoats to know for sure we did it. We will be disguised as Native Americans.”
“You mean Indians?” Revere interrupted.
“I think we’re past that,” Adams said. “See, we want them to know we did it, but not be able to prove it. Then, whatever actions they take against us will appear all the more oppressive.”
“So I kill the rippers and you sneak in. But what about de Lavoir?”
“We’re pretty sure that he is in charge of the boat that we plan to attack.”
Prescott’s attention became rapt. “So you expect him to be in the area?”
“Better,” said Adams. “We expect him to be on one of the boats.”
****
George Washington lived on a rather prosperous plantation in Virginia. He had a large contingent of workers and slaves on his property. He had gained a good deal of experience from his time in the French and Indian War, but it had been some time since he had been a warrior. He enjoyed living the life of a prosperous man. He did not, however, appreciate the Brits and the way they seemed to feel as if they had the right to dictate what the colonists did, while the colonists provided tremendous services and materials to the crown yet had no say in the government. What was that catch phrase that had been going around? “No taxation without representation.” Eh, not bad. It would never stick. Washington preferred h
is slogan: “No tobaccey without some talky.” He was not sure if it had much grammatical validity, but he liked to say tobaccey even if he was pretty sure it was not a word.
Speaking of word, word was spreading. The word was that there was to be a secret meeting. A convention of sorts. When this meeting would take place was still under much mystery and debate. Who would be there? Where would it be? Would this all blow over and no meeting take place? All valid questions. But from Washington’s perspective, he wouldn’t mind a meeting. He would like to come together with other great men from around the colonies. Perhaps if they could unite the colonies under one voice, led by a smattering of great men from each colony, it would show the British that they were serious. And then real negotiations would take place. Negotiations that may not lead to a new country, but instead a fair voice in union with Britain. They needed to be united to have a chance to argue their points, and the British needed to see, and see it clear, that if no fair agreement was reached, then war would be the way. Washington did not hope for war, but he was also not one to sit around and be treated poorly. He hated people who treated others poorly. He looked out upon his vast plantation and saw his slaves working hard. He sipped his lemonade and dreamed of a day when he and his countrymen would not feel the icy grip of oppression.
He glanced up. There was a rider heading toward his home. He appeared to be a messenger. Washington decided to go out and meet the man face to face. It was a young man upon the horse. He said nothing, only delivered a letter to Washington and was on his way.
“George Washington,” the letter began. “Various diplomats and men of action are preparing to meet for a Continental Congress. Actions are underway that are likely to propel the British into even more aggressive and unacceptable regulations. It is time to meet and discuss a course of action. The Continental Congress would be honored by your presence. Please keep this letter in the highest of secrecy. Your friend and partner in liberty, Payton Randolph.”
So it begins, thought Washington.
****
Arnold was a warrior who could not find a war and Dawes was a messenger with no idea what his message was. As a result, the two simply bumbled around in a misguided attempt to find people who were on the in with the revolution. Since Dawes could not find Gill, he really did not know any other Sons of Liberty and, since Arnold didn’t really know anyone in the area, they basically ran around with great excitement until they predictably found themselves in a tavern. The name of this particular refuge was The Unkempt Giraffe.
“I thought you were connected,” said Arnold, angrily spearing his steak with a fork.
“I am sort of connected. I’m more on the outskirts, I guess. I know Gill, but he seems to have disappeared as of late. I also know Revere a bit, but I haven’t been able to find him lately either. Come to think of it, the whole city of Boston seems to have become bereft of revolutionaries lately.”
“I see,” Arnold mused. “When a hot house of revolt suddenly becomes silent, what does it mean, Mr. Dawes?”
“Vacation?”
“Possibly. But more likely is that they are staying low because they are planning. And just as the silence becomes too loud to hear, that is when they will strike. Can you think of any particularly likely targets of the Sons of Liberty?”
‘Hmmm.” Dawes made a dramatic show of scratching his head in thought, while in reality he was just feigning thought as he was realizing that he had become happy simply working as a tanner and avoiding violence. That event with Prescott, now a year past, still made him a little antsy.
“C’mon. Use your brain. You have to have noticed something. A British munitions dump, a cannon being stored somewhere with little guard. Boats that are unguarded? Something. A barracks?” Arnold paused. “You’re killing me here. I should have asked for two names before I left.”
“Wait a second.” Dawes didn’t need to feign thought now. An actual idea had sneaked into his head. “There are those three tea boats in the harbor. I was reading about it and also it’s been all the talk.”
“It’s been ‘all the talk,’ huh? We’ve been wandering around blindly like drunken puppies all day while you forgot something that has been ‘all the talk.’”
“I don’t do well under pressure.” Dawes sipped his ale. “There is a lot of ballyhoohoo about those boats. How the colonists refused to pay the taxed tea, although I didn’t notice an increase in cost. And how the Brits won’t send the ships back. That seems like possibly, you know, a thing.”
“Yes, it could be a thing indeed.” Arnold rose and pulled Dawes to his feet. He looked him in the eye. “It may be that this will be the first seed of glory planted upon the name of Benedict Arnold and you, Mr. Dawes, you may very well be the gardener that helped the seed to blossom.”
“That sounds nice. But all I know is where the boats are, not what or if anything will happen.”
“Yes, but my dear Dawes, that is why God invented the stakeout. To Revere’s shop!”
****
Daniel Morgan really liked the idea of running a gauntlet, the concept of battling through a number of ever increasingly dangerous obstacles while you prove your might, eventually reaching your goal and achieving victory, while also hopefully getting to shoot a bunch of bad guys in the process. So it is fair to say that when Mahrak, which means “blade of the devil,” or as he was sometimes called, “random Indian guy,” said that Morgan, Marion, and Boone would have to run the gauntlet, Morgan was pretty excited. Excitement led to nervousness, which led to bloodlust, which then sadly led to boredom when he realized that the first part of the gauntlet was to survive the winter. This was not a challenge of bravery or tactical savvy, but a challenge of avoiding boredom and general malaise.
The winter was harsh and cold. But the three of them plus Mahrak were used to living out of doors in this type of weather. As the weeks passed, Morgan began to suspect that Mahrak was using this gauntlet as an excuse to have help with his chores and to avoid his own boredom. Boone and Morgan had taken to killing time mostly by playing cards and drinking. Marion, much to their everlasting fear, had begun learning the arts of papier-mâché and knitting. When he presented Morgan with a scarf he had “spent all week on and nearly bled to death from poking his finger,” it was all Morgan could do not to throttle the poor bastard and put him out of his misery.
Still, Morgan held out hope. For he realized that it was December and soon Christmas would be upon them. Certainly, Mahrak would have many friends over for Christmas. Friends who would either provide entertainment, information that Mahrak did not yet want to share, or at least the opportunity to have a good fight. Sadly, Morgan’s intense depression grew when one day Boone reminded him that Indians did not celebrate Christmas as they had a different religion than them. That sent Morgan into a rather racist rant that we will not spend time talking about now. Nor will we discuss the fact that celebrating Christmas did not yet exist.
With the news of no Christmas, Morgan figured that he would try to convert Mahrak to Christianity. However, Morgan was not overly religious himself and his lack of knowledge on the subject and the rather obvious fact that drinking and violence were his motivations for change led Mahrak to remain whatever religion he may have been prior to Morgan’s feeble efforts.
In a disgusting turn of events, Marion seemed to be enjoying their wintry imprisonment. His accursed crafts were everywhere. He had even begun to take up whistling at random intervals throughout the day. Morgan’s most vicious threats could do nothing to crush his joyous mood. And Morgan’s other partner, Boone? Well, would it kill him to wash that hat? Morgan thought that it stunk when they first met, but now it could easily kill a bear from fifty yards out. So secluded were they, however, that no bear was in danger of coming so close. In fact, with the exception of an occasional giant bat or stray zombie, no rippers happened their way, either. Little news reached them in their seclusion. Here and there, an Indian traveler or small group would pass by or stop for a night and talk with Mahr
ak. But they either did not speak English or refused to do so as they only spoke with Mahrak, and he never felt obliged to translate. All in all, the winter was a real saggy tit.
On one of the seemingly endless days of limbo-esque redundancy, Morgan decided to speak to Mahrak. It may have been Tuesday or Friday, but really, time had lost all meaning.
“Mahrak, when do you think you might enlighten us to this Croatoan mystery?”
“As I have said to you many, many times, not until you have finished the stages of the gauntlet. Then I will share the mystery, tell the story of the Croatan, and take you to Roanoke.”
“So when will we finish this gauntlet thing?”
“You are still on but the first step.”
“Yes, I get that.” Morgan, for a moment, considered strangling him, but figured that would mean he had wasted all of his time, so he tried to continue talking. “When do you think we can start phase two?”
“Soon. Once the ice subsides, we can make our way to the cavern of the darkened eyes and begin stage two.”
Instilled with a touch of hope that the cavern of the darkened eyes could involve death and danger, Morgan soldiered on. “And about how much time would you estimate before the ice subsides?”
“Generally, in about two more months.”
Regardless of what historians may tell you, Morgan did not then begin to weep. There was only something in his eye.
****
December 16, 1773. Boston Harbor.
Prescott was not sure that this was a good use of his time, but it was all he had to go on for now. Besides, if Adams was lying to him he could certainly track him down now that he knew some of his hideouts and contacts. Plus, he could definitely make Revere crack if it came down to it.
